


Interrobang

by YeahScience



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Chirping, Swearing, Trash Talk, mic'd up, preseason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:59:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6690655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YeahScience/pseuds/YeahScience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the Blackhawks' first time facing the Rangers since their knockout in the first round of the 2016 Stanley Cup Finals. The team is determined to prove themselves. But Coach Q has a surprise for Shawzy: he'll be mic'd up for this game. And he has to watch his language (there are children watching, think of the children!). Can Shawzy tame his wild side, hold his tongue, and bring the Hawks to a redemptive victory?!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interrobang

**Author's Note:**

> This work turned out longer than I intended. Like, 3 times longer. It's exactly 3000 words!
> 
> 2016-17 preseason, so all trades/schedules/scores are fiction.
> 
> I have nothing against Rick Nash. Just needed someone to chirp with Shawzy. 
> 
> Warnings: Language, copious amounts in French and English, if you can't tell from the summary. If you can't handle profanity, hockey and its RPFs probably aren't for you… ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Shaw was fired up. (What else is new?) Sure, this game technically didn’t mean jack shit, but he really wanted the team to come out strong. They’d lost in the first round of the playoffs last season. Yeah, they had a dynasty and all, plus all kinds of trades (Shaw still pined for Sharpy every once in a while: his partner in crime), so breaking the new team in might’ve had something to do with it. But he’d worked his ass off during the off-season and had 10 more pounds of solid muscle to show for it. He wasn’t a Mutt now; he was a fucking pit-bull. 

The guys were getting ready in their dressing room. The red sweaters seemed to roil underneath the fluorescent lights, clashing brilliantly with the flashes of freshly sharpened skates. Jonny was already in full pads, doing his job as captain by walking around and checking in on the guys. He patted Crow’s shoulder, then nodded at Breadman, making his way to Shaw. 

“Hey, Shawzy,” Tazer began. His voice was as level as ever. Captain Serious is a damn good name. “Coach wants to see you for a few minutes before we break.”

Shit. Jonny must’ve been able to read his teammate’s blank face. “No, you’re not in trouble, man. Something about getting mic’d for this game, I think.” Double shit. Shaw hated being mic’d. He’d spit a fair amount of trash talk during your average game, but for some reason the idea of it being recorded just irked him. Like authors who don’t want their unpublished manuscripts read by the public, he only wanted his finest, thought-out curses to be heard, not his spur-of-the-moment swears. 

Shaw merely nodded and hustled over to Q’s office. He was standing behind his desk, leaning over a folder. There was a little black box off to the left, tangled in a mess of wires. So yeah, it certainly looked like he was getting mic’d. 

“Andrew,” Quenneville addressed him, looking up. “Good, I told Toews to fetch you for me. Got some news. You’re mic’d tonight.” Shaw had to bite his tongue to keep from letting his profane stream of consciousness spill out. He had an attitude, but would never forget his position as a player in front of his coach. A loyal and obedient Mutt. Instead, he drew a deliberate and drawn out breath. 

“I dunno, for some reason the League wants at least one person on each team to be mic’d during one game of the season. Bullshit rule, if you ask me. But Jonny picked your name outta the hat, so looks like you’re the lucky one. Or rather, the unlucky one.” Q picked up the little black box and tossed it over the desk to Shaw, who caught it passively with one hand. You know, to silently voice his disapproval.

“Why didn’t Tazer pick his own name outta the hat?” Shaw whined. “He’s the captain, he should be doing this stuff!”

“Exactly, he’s the captain,” Q retorted. “Which means he doesn’t have to do any useless media he doesn’t want to. You do.” There was a hint of sadistic pleasure in his voice, and Shaw wrinkled his nose. All the same, he turned and was headed out the door when Q called him back. 

“One more thing,” Q said. “No swearing.” There was an immediate silence, and Q waited for sound of the boy’s jaw hitting the floor. There wasn’t one, but he certainly had something to say about this turn of events. 

“Bullshit!” Shaw exclaimed like a teenager who’d been informed of a curfew or had his Xbox Live cancelled. Just like anyone, Shaw knew the importance of profanity to the game of hockey. Everybody chirped. Hell, even the goalies! Instigating was Shaw’s specialty; that’s why he was the Mutt and not the goddamn Pixie or some shit. 

“Hey!” Q barked. “Exhibit A!” Shaw snapped his mouth shut. “Look, would you wanna play for and support a team that spouts obscenities like a fountain?” Q stared hopelessly at Shaw’s blank face. “Don’t answer that. Anyway, the guys in the media room wanna make us look good, that’s all. Keep your nose clean during this game, that’s all I ask. Then you can play the next one and call each and every player a chicken shit and see if I care. Now go get dressed.”

Shaw marched out of the office even more fired up than when he went in. He loved Coach Q like a father and sure as hell respected him like one. But come on: strapping a microphone on him and telling him to watch his potty-mouth? Or what, he’ll get 15 minutes with a bar of soap in his mouth? You could beat the actual shit out of a poor bastard and get a five-minute time out. Penalty #65, Andrew Shaw, 2 minutes for using the F-word. Shaw snickered at the prospect. But then he stiffened when he remembered that one-gamer and $5000 fine he had to settle. 

He was already running late. Most of the other guys had their pads on, and a few were already in their sweaters and lacing up their skates. Shaw had to hurry, threading the wires of the mic up under his Under Armour and securing it to his bare skin with a couple pieces of athletic tape. It tickled him, which was annoying as hell. Shaking his head in a grim resolution, Shaw attached the mic box to his shorts and pulled on his shoulder pads. 

“Alright, boys!” Jonny bellowed. “Let’s go get ‘em!” Sure, it wasn’t the most eloquent of speeches, but it got the job done. The guys raucously yelled their support; their blood was boiling, and they were ready for some Goddamned good old-fashioned hockey.

~*~

Shaw’s very skeleton resonated when the organ struck up its opening chords. Jim’s dominating voice never ceased to amaze him. For some reason, it made him think back to his days as a little kid, all the way back in little league. This scene, right in front of him, is exactly what he dreamed of for all those years. He’d started as nothing more than a little Canadian squirt, and now he was playing for one of the Original Six. He’d cry if he weren’t a man with some damned self-respect. Instead, he stood with his hands on the top of his stick and swayed gently from side to side. 

“And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air…” Andrew snapped to attention and found himself mumbling along to the anthem, which was bringing a smile to his face. Until he remembered the mic. Well, shit. That’ll make it onto YouTube’s “2016-17 NHL Bloopers Compilation” for sure. 

~*~

Shaw was on the bench for the first shift. The game was pretty slow, lots of turnovers in the neutral zone. Neither Crow nor Lundqvist had any kind of job to do. Shaw just sat in a cloud of eagerness for his first shift. The ice was a hornet’s nest; all it needed was someone to stir it. 

The time finally came. A near-icing pass by the Hawks gave both teams time to switch out, and Shaw gladly vaulted off of the bench. As soon as his skates crunched onto the rink, he saw the puck flash by. He took a deep breath, then rocketed towards it, muscles pumping. Zuccarello was already there, and Shaw had to brake suddenly to avoid a charging call. 

“Shit,” he hissed, sending up a veritable plume of snow. Something was tickling his chest. “The hell?” Oh right, the damn mic. “Sonofa…” Uh oh. “A really nice guy.” A pause, contemplative, then a self-impressed “Yeah…”.

Andrew pulled his mind from his grand soliloquy to chase after the puck. He didn’t have to focus for too long, though, because the Rangers got called on icing. Q wanted another line change for some reason, so Shaw took his seat. He sat back and enjoyed the Aerosmith that was playing over the stadium speakers, careful not to sing.

~*~

Shaw took his next shift about 15 minutes into the first period. The puck had spent a dangerous amount of time in the Hawks’ defensive zone, and some of the more nervous fans had risen to their feet. It had been a few minutes since a stoppage of play, and quite frankly everyone in the arena was expecting a goal sometime soon. Shaw was happy to oblige. 

Andrew leapt onto the ice and hovered by the blue line for a few seconds, letting the two defensemen do their thing. 

Seabs to Rozsival. A quick pass found its way to Breadman’s stick, and he advanced into the offensive zone. Damn, that kid is good. Shaw followed him and soon the Hawks were set up in a perfect scoring position. A poke check from one of the Rangers nearly sent it out of bounds, but Seabs was there to keep it in, like always. 

Then came a series of rapid-fire passes. Lundqvist tracked the puck expertly, trapper raised. But all of a sudden, Shaw got a flash of mesh and banged his stick, alerting the line that he was ready to make a shot on goal. Whoever had the puck got the message, and in a quick one-two and a wrister, the crowd erupted. 

Horns blared, and the opening drumbeats of Chelsea Dagger (almost) drowned out the electrified profanity that spilled out of Shawzy’s pie hole.

“FUCK YEAH!” He bellowed as he barreled into Seabs and Rozsival. First goal of the preseason, back on top! Then there was a bang on the back of his helmet. Someone in the group hug must’ve accidentally smacked him. No matter, because he was too damned hyped. But it was no accident; Shaw made eye contact with Seabrook, and the word he mouthed was unmistakeable: “Mic!”

Shaw attempted, in vain, to cover up his faux-pas. “Man, you guys are great! Nice teamwork!” Shaw gave a smug grin; that’s what Q was lookin’ for. 

Shaw spent the rest of the period resting on the bench, getting various congratulations from the team and staff. The Hawks went into their dressing room for first intermission with a 1-0 lead. 

~*~

During the intermission, Q pulled Shaw aside. “I’m gonna raise the stakes.” He murmured. “For each cuss word, that’s another optional morning skate that just became mandatory for you. Kapish?” Andrew was never one to back down from a challenge, so he gave a wry smile and nodded. 

Q put Shaw in for the first shift of the second period, and Shaw definitely saw it as a nudge. Coach knew the Rangers were gonna start fighting back, and he was waiting for Shaw to mouth off. But he wasn’t going to, no sir! Shaw was about to be your model hockeyer, ready to prove his benevolence to all the youth of North-

BAM! Shaw got frickin’ rammed. His shoulder wrenched and he scraped his cheek along the boards as he fell. For any other normal human being, this would’ve been a hit hard to get up from. But in the NHL, when you give a lot of hits, you take a lot, and Shaw got right back up. The thing is, the puck was nowhere near him. It was a good half a metre in front, slanting along the stick of Marian Hossa. Shaw listened for the whistle; sure enough, there it was. 

It was Nash. As soon as Shaw stood up, muscle memory kicked in and he grabbed the winger right in the V of his jersey. Wrong move. 

“You wanna fight?” Nash growled. Shaw kinda did. Seriously, interference? This is the damned NHL, not the minors. Keep your eye on the puck! “You gonna drop your gloves, bitch?”

Ooh, Andrew felt it now. But in the back of the head, he heard Q’s warning. Morning skates sucked, especially on the road when you were tired as hell. And he was determined to prove himself. 

“I dunno, you little butt-brick,” he retorted. Nash took a second to comprehend the curse. It wasn’t poetry, but it was slightly insulting. Shaw applied a wide, toothless grin to his face, evidently pleased with his ability to hold his tongue and embellish a blank canvas with clean profanity. 

“ Th’ fuck?” Was the Nash’s first response, reasonably. He reached up and grabbed Shaw’s jersey, and the crowd began to roil as the two skated in a slow circle. “Come on, you gonna go or what?”

“Nah,” Shaw responded with a sly nonchalance. “Your face is already messed up enough!” He dropped his hands from the man’s jersey and skated backwards with a particular swagger, narrowly escaping a right cross. A ref ushered Nash into the penalty box to assess his two-minute interference minor. 

Man, this shi- I mean, this stuff is fun! Thought a delighted Mutt.

Andrew was on the bench when the Hawks converted the power play. Kane let loose a couple F-bombs, and Shaw whipped his head around to correct him.

“Shh!” he hushed. “Language, Kaner!” Kane raised his eyebrows and leaned back with the appropriate amount of shock.

“Are you- are you serious? Man, what the hell is in your Gatorade?”

The guys strode confidently into the locker room for the second intermission under the comforting protection of a 2-0 lead. 

~*~

There was 7 minutes left in the third, still 2-0, and the Madhouse was going nuts. Corey had trapped a wicked slapshot from the blue line. Honest to God, that guy never ceased to impress. 

Shaw headed out for the faceoff, which the Rangers won. The Hawks spread out, covering their men. The puck went skittering into the corner, and Shaw hauled ass after it. He went to stop against it, but knocked his skate just slightly. As he was trying to regain his balance, he caught the butt of a defenseman’s stick. It was more of a shock than anything: didn’t hurt too bad. 

“Merde,” he hissed, checking his lip for blood. Nothing. But the ref had called high-sticking, and Shaw wasn’t about to complain about a power play. 

The defenseman skated off to the sin bin, and before Shawzy could stop himself he spat, “Connard.”

Little did he know that Toews was right behind him. 

“That counts!” the captain informed him. 

“Canard!” Shaw called back. “J’ai dit ‘Canard’!” Tazer returned this news with a good-natured snort. 

Anyway, the penalty began and progressed as normal. There was about a minute left when Shaw called in for a change. No sooner had he sat down than did he hear a huge uproar. Breakaway: Rangers. 

“Darndarndarndarn,” Shaw breathed with each stride the skater took. Corey buzzed around, making hundreds of minute adjustments in his position and the puck slid closer and closer. All the Hawks that were left behind were streaking as fast as they could towards the offensive zone, but it was too late. Corey had predicted a trick, but overcorrected on the rebound and the puck went over his stick-side shoulder. “Aww, shoot.” The Hawks on ice slowed and let themselves glide on over to the bench. 

It was times like this when the bench got deadly quiet. Only a few minutes left, ahead by one goal. Cannot let them score. Cannot draw a penalty. Lundqvist is gonna start sneaking out of the net soon. 

Sure enough, Shaw’s prediction was right. When the puck was securely in the Rangers’ offensive zone, Lunqvist crept tentatively out of his crease, then tore-assed towards the bench. A forward vaulted off his position on the bench and right up to the puck. The Hawks that were on the ice immediately shifted their positions accordingly. Down to the wire now; was this game gonna go into OT or not?

Seabs swiveled around on his skates and painted the ice with his stick. His defense was excellent. Shaw practically nibbled at the fingertips of his gloves as the precious seconds ticked away.

15\. Now 10. A final shot on goal, and it ricocheted off of Corey’s pads and was swept away by Kaner. No icing, because before the puck got there, the horns had blared and the Madhouse went mad. 

A solid win 2-1 win against the Rangers. Preseason, but a confidence booster after their playoffs spectacle last year (about which they were still a little bitter). Tazer hopped onto the ice and skated along the bench, giving each player a deserved fist bump. He then waited until all of them had filed into the dressing room for a post-game breakdown, bringing up the lead behind Darling.

~*~

It wasn’t until he had taken off his Under Armour that Shaw remembered he was in fact wearing a mic. He was peeling off the thin, sweaty membrane when he saw several black wires across his chest. Wait, what? Am I on a Holter monitor today or something? But then he recalled his conversations with Q and chuckled.

Speaking of that jolly old bastard, Shaw went to go see him after Tazer had congratulated the team on a solid performance, yadda yadda yadda. Q was packing up in his office, but deep down Shaw knew he was hanging back and waiting for him.

“Hey, Shawzy,” he said. His voice was gruff from fatigue. And the yelling. His eyes caught the halogen bulbs above and glinted. “Have you come to turn in your ball and chain?”

Andrew nodded with a chuckle. “Sure thing, Coach.” He stripped off the tape and wires and handed the device back to Quenneville. He wound the wires around it and stuck it somewhere in his bag. 

“How’d the mic work out for you?” Q prodded. “Am I gonna be seeing you at morning skate next week?” The two guys exchanged good-natured glares. 

“Fuck that!” Shaw blurts out. Q pauses, weighing the effectiveness of chastising the boy. But both knew one thing.

“I guess you can’t teach an old Mutt new tricks.”

Shaw laughed. “Hell no.”


End file.
